


Down

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 18:04:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>wing!kink, pwp. destiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down

He drags one hand, rough, down the arc of one wing, and Castiel arches back against it, breathing ragged through his nose. Dean had no idea he could do this before; never even imagined how much Cas would  _like_ it, either; his blunt fingers tagging, catching on the feathers, and each gentle tug drawing another surprised breath from Castiel.

Castiel - sat indian-style on the bed in front of him, back bare, wings rising wide and fanned out from it  - makes a sharp, desperate, keening noise when Dean fists his hand in one of his wings and leans forward to kiss the back of his neck. He shuffles forward; fits himself close, with Castiel’s naked back between the vee of his legs. He tugs again and Castiel groans, tipping his neck backwards onto Dean’s shoulder, wings trembling under Dean’s hands.

 At first Dean was intimidated by them; their strength, their  _hugeness,_ the way they completely dissolved any illusions Dean had about Cas being a normal man – but he’s adaptable. He kisses, open mouthed, the side of Castiel’s neck, and fans out both his hands – strokes from where the wing begins to as far as he can reach, drawing from Castiel a thick, low murmur, “ _Dean,”_ his throat vibrating against Dean’s mouth. Yeah.He’s  _adapted._   

“You like this, huh?” he murmurs, nonsensical, against Cas’ ear. The angel’s back muscles tremble against Dean’s chest; his lower back and the cleft of his ass are pressed sweat-close against Dean’s cock, heat spiking through him when Castiel moves his hips, writhing. Castiel chokes a laugh, tacked on the end of another fierce, wanting groan.

“You  _know_ I do, Dean.” He says, but his sober tone is betrayed by the way his voice rises, gasping, when Dean lowers his head; butts his forehead against Castiel’s shoulderblade to tip him forward, and kisses his wing where it joins to his back. A mouthful of feathers is worth it when Castiel makes a noise like he’s  _dying._

The first time they did this Dean just went on instinct, and the  _sounds_ , the disbelief in Castiel’s voice, was enough to make Dean  come untouched all over his back. He’s thought about it since, too; eyed Castiel across a room, his wings tucked away, and wanted so badly to get his hands on them – hear him,  _feel_ him, gasping and rolling his shoulders – that he could barely sit still in his chair.  He rubs his face against Castiel’s wing; smells the soft, animal scent of him, brushing his nose in between the lines of feathers, breathing in deep, then exhaling over them. Castiel’s wing flutters; makes a rustling sound as a wave goes through it, roiling from root to tip. Dean presses his face harder against it; moves his hands from Castiel’s wings to his hips and rocks against his back, dick grinding against his spine.

He breathes in, sharp, and Cas rocks back against him, wings spread out across the room. His head lolls back onto Dean’s shoulder and he groans, lazy and low, when Dean lifts a hand again and starts stroking, slow, dragging his fingers through the thick thatch of feathers. Castiel murmurs, and Dean can’t bear it any longer; he lets go of the angel’s other hip to reach between them and jack his own cock, thrusting through the circle of his fist. There’s barely any room; his knuckles slide in the sweat pooling on Cas’ lower back as he moves.

His breath catches in his throat when Castiel’s hands find the meat of his thighs on either side of his hips and clutch at him, gripping tight, sure to leave ten round, black and blue bruises in his wake. Dean lifts his head a little and presses his brow against Cas’ shoulder, instead, eyes squeezed shut. He gasps, “ _Fuck_ , Cas,” because all other coherency has left him, and the angel only rocks back harder, skin of his back pressing against Dean’s fist. Dean’s babbling nonsense; anything that comes to mind, his thoughts occupied with the sounds – the short, aching cries, building higher, tacked on the end of halting, rapid breaths – coming from Castiel’s mouth.

He’s so wet, just from this; the feel of his hand on himself, the press of Castiel’s hot back against his fist, the  _noise_ and the buzzing, humid electricity that seems to spiral out of Castiel’s wings - - out of  _all of him_  – in waves. He moves his hand faster on his cock; tightens his fist in Cas’ wing and comes, juddering, messy, over his own hand, up Castiel’s back. Dean rides it out, still rolling his hips against Castiel’s flesh; fingers still gripping, tugging, on all the feathers he can reach. The heat of Castiel’s wing is so close to his face that he can smell, mixed together, their downy musk and the scent of his come. Castiel is still huffing, fast; still tipped back against Dean’s shoulder.

On impulse, Dean lifts his wet, messy hand and smears come over Castiel’s back; spreads it across his shoulder blades; onto his wing. With his hand splayed wide, he threads his fingers through the feathers, leaving trails of himself behind, and Castiel  _yells –_ his hips stutter between Dean’s legs, his knees drawing up, heels pushing against the bed, and he comes with a shout, all over himself, breathing the syllable of Dean’s name, then repeating it over and over, “ _Dean, oh, Dean,”_ softer and softer, until he sags, boneless, against Dean’s chest. Dean fights the urge to collapse, himself; he presses his nose against Castiel’s shoulder, then lifts his head to kiss the skin there, soft; can feel, even now, how Castiel is  _humming_ beneath it.

“You like that?” he says again, exhausted, laughing, and Castiel loosens his grip on one of Dean’s thighs, rolling his shoulders, fluid and languid. He swats at his leg.

“Be quiet.” He says, and huffs a derisive breath even as he leans back against Dean’s shoulder; even as he closes his eyes, and dozes, as he always does, on Dean’s collarbone.

 Dean sighs; circles his arms around the angel’s waist. They’re a  _mess._

They’re  _definitely_ doing this again.


End file.
